


The Best Gifts Are Homemade

by BosieJan



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Holiday Fic Exchange, M/M, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BosieJan/pseuds/BosieJan
Summary: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2017 - College!AU - both boys are about 20 years of ageNapoleon finds himself strangely drawn to the new exchange student, and he swears it isn't just Illya's striking good looks and his monstrous height that are the cause of it.





	The Best Gifts Are Homemade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NiciJones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiciJones/gifts).



 

It  _ wasn’t _ a trick, Napoleon decided, as he took a long, obvious look at the student standing at the front of his class. There  _ was _ an exchange student arriving as was rumoured, and he  _ was _ as  _ foreign _ as the rumours suggested. Impossibly tall and with a handsome face Napoleon felt a southward throb of longing for, Illya Kuryakin neither smiled nor nodded as the teacher introduced him to the class and pointed out a seat to take. It was  _ not _ as close to Napoleon as he’d have liked.

 

Napoleon followed Illya with his eyes until Illya sat down, arranged his bag over the back of his chair, and glanced around, obviously as curious about those watching him as Napoleon was about getting a good glimpse while he could. He looked away immediately as Illya locked eyes with him and Napoleon swore under his breath, turning his attention back to the history book currently open in front of him. Class immediately resumed and while the teacher droned on about why Illya’s arrival should be fortuitous in the face of their current curriculum, Napoleon recognized the link for what it was.

 

Their semester was on European history in the years surrounding World War I and World War II, as well as Russia’s occupation of Germany during the years following. Illya would be a boon to their research both because of the work his father had been in--Russian politics--and because Illya was still severely Russian in most ways, including the language. He spoke, wrote, and understood English remarkably well, but his mannerisms may seem strange to the rest of the class.

 

Illya frowned slightly at the mention of his mannerisms being strange, but he otherwise took the explanation with gentle aplomb. He  _ was _ different and his behaviour was going to _ be _ different, but Illya felt that he  _ looked  _ much the same as the Americans he sat among. Apart from those incredibly, physically different from himself, Illya felt like a spy in a foreign nation and in some ways, he was.

 

\--------------------------

 

The first two days ran together for Napoleon but he spent his off-time hunting Illya down, or following him from class to class, checking out his schedule and plotting some much-needed discussion. Napoleon  _ loved  _ history--specifically European history and the occupation of Germany and Berlin--so any information Illya could share would be an asset to his studies. Napoleon wasn’t particularly fond of school but he wanted to travel once given a chance off-leash, and graduating with decent marks was his only option to do so.

 

He caught Illya by chance while the Russian was leaving the councellor’s office on the afternoon of the second day, a folder full of paperwork tucked under Illya’s arm and his bag strapped over the other shoulder. His height was so much more apparent while standing beside him or walking past him in the hall, and Napoleon found that the sheer size of Illya in general threw him into a bit of an unusual unease.

 

“So, your father had some kind of  _ in _ with Stalin and his cronies, huh?” Napoleon asked out of the blue, as he paced Illya in the hallway. It was difficult due to the enormous length of Illya’s stride, but Napoleon managed with minimal effort. 

 

Illya turned a sour glare upon Napoleon and kept walking, not exactly pleased with having his personal affairs discussed in an open hallway. He was on his way to the on-campus dormitory to put the files away and get into some of his afternoon studying, but he wasn’t looking forward to a full-on discussion with a student Illya had already picked out as _ trouble _ .

 

The very way Napoleon wore his clothes and styled his hair told Illya that Napoleon was an American playboy. The cut of his face, though strikingly handsome by any country’s standards, looked like it had seen both the feel of a man’s knuckles,  _ and _ a very constant barrage of female lips.  _ Which _ lips in particular, Illya cared not to think about.

 

He’d been warned by his university to keep an eye for anyone asking too many questions, and to be wary of their advances. Americans were tricky and very casual about everything. Nothing was to be assumed, and nothing would be as it seemed.

 

“Is not your business,” Illya snapped, reaching to haul the door open on his dormitory and heading inside without so much as holding the door for Napoleon. 

 

But Napoleon was not to be dismissed so easily, and he continued to follow. A smile split his face as he caught back up with Illya, ready for a fight if one should arise, but doubting that it would on school grounds. Illya accent was unfamiliar and like music to Napoleon’s ears, so he continued to hear more of it.

 

“Maybe I’d like to make it my business.”

 

Illya stopped walking and whirled on Napoleon, a frustrated and surprised look on his face. “Why would you- ..no, is  _ not  _ your business. Am not allowing this.”

 

Napoleon chuckled as he followed the again-moving Illya. “Allowing what? Mild conversation in a public corridor? We’re classmates, you know. We may have to work together sometime.”

 

“No,” came the terse reply.

 

“Not  _ nyet _ ?”

 

Illya stopped dead again, this time turning a fairly angry glare upon Napoleon. 

 

“Am in your country so no, is not nyet. Much as I want it to be.”

 

Napoleon crossed his arms over his chest, the gesture both defensive and standoffish, just the way he wanted it.  _ “Это может быть, если вы перестали быть грубыми.” _ (It could be, if you stopped being rude.”

 

Illya’s sour expression melted a touch, but he still didn’t smile or offer words of friendship. He narrowed his eyes and gave a light tilt of his head, acknowledging something Napoleon was unsure of.

“Accent is good, if you are trying to be Russian  _ farmer. _ KGB would catch you immediately as spy if they heard.”

 

“Then teach me how to do it properly.”

 

It was Illya’s turn to make a derisive noise, the snort coming out almost as comfortably as the man breathed. “No.”

 

“ _ Da _ .”

 

“ _ Nyet. _ ”

 

“Please.”

 

Illya turned again and immediately bolted down the hallway, his key in hand and the door opened before Napoleon could even give chanse. The dorm door shut with a slam and Napoleon smiled to himself, feeling like the hunter after successfully scaring a rabbit right into his trap.

 

Or a Siberian wolf, as the case may be.

 

\-----------------------

 

Because he’d come in right before the Christmas break, Illya had to get as much work done as possible to catch up. Napoleon often caught him coming or going from the library with stacks of books and little more than an apple caught between his teeth. Napoleon never saw Illya in the cafeteria or even the little pub on their campus, so he assumed the Russian ate in his dorm, or was a follower of prolonged hunger, like some Europeans had been shown to be in the newspaper in recent years.

 

Napoleon cooked, but didn’t live on campus; he had an apartment nearby and lived there alone thanks to a nest-egg his mother had set up for him, and he decided that bringing a meal may get him  _ in  _ with the fascinating Russian. 

 

To Illya, whose time was spent between sleeping and studying and little else, Napoleon had become something of a shadow. He was always around or at least nearby, offering a hand with a stack of books or simply leaning against a shelf in the library, looking for casual chit chat. It made Illya uncomfortable, how casual Napoleon was with his attention, but he supposed it was the American way. Even the counsellor had been unnaturally friendly and open with suggestions upon Illya’s arrival.

 

The placing of a covered set of plastic dishes before him had Illya turning his attention from the chemistry textbook he’d chosen that afternoon. They were containers meant for storing food and being reheated on a stove or hot plate, yes, but why were they being placed in front of  _ him _ ?

“Is joke?” he asked tentatively, setting the book down and leveling a glare upon Napoleon.

 

Napoleon only smiled a little brighter, and tapped the lid on the topmost container. “Is dinner, my Russian friend.” he pointed to each item and explained what was inside. “Beef and onion goulash, fried potatoes, steamed cauliflower and carrots, and the small one is peach cobbler. Thought I’d make you comfort food you’d recognize, but sneak in an American dessert for fun.”

 

“We have peach in Russia.”

 

“True, but you don’t have cobbler. At least, not my grandmother’s recipe for it.”

 

“Where is wool,  _ Cowboy _ ?” Illya asked, finally a little loosened in his behaviour after weeks of Napoleon trying to wear him down. “That you are trying to pull over my eyes? Is poison peach?”

 

Napoleon raised his hands briefly, showing mock surrender. “I swear there’s nothing untoward about my gesture. Just never seen you eating in the cafeteria and while I take pride in my cooking ability, I thought you’d enjoy a taste of home. Consider it a peace offering.”

 

“Peace?” Illya repeated, looking surprised. “We are not at war.”

 

“ _ We _ may not be, but our  _ countries _ certainly are. Might not be full-on war, but it’s a very unflattering relationship. It’s a surprise at all that you were granted a student visa. Must’ve taken some  _ doing _ to get that.”

 

“Was my father’s doing,” Illya offered. “He is.. _ was _ ..minister of foreign affairs. He had.. _ problem _ ..with new regime and part of summary action was this. I cannot go back home until things have been settled.”

 

Napoleon wasn’t ready for that. Maybe there was some kind of remorse and a real human being inside Illya’s cold, distant exterior. 

 

“Can’t really be the  _ Red Peril _ with a sob story like that, now can you?” Napoleon joked, backing up from the table with a light, pointless dusting of his hands. “You take those and have a good meal, then we can discuss your repayment for it.”

 

Illya looked up at Napoleon almost suspiciously. “Repayment?”

 

“For the meals I’m going to be making you. I think Russian lessons should be part of it, as well as friendship. I’m not some guy asking a girl for _ favours _ , Peril,” Napoleon joked, giving Illya his own nickname while leaning down obscenely close to speak softly, directly into Illya’s ear. “Don’t look at me as if I’d propositioned you. That’s  _ illegal _ around here.”

 

Napoleon left without another word, throwing a bit of a wrench into Illya’s best-laid afternoon plans. He’d been studying silently and was suddenly pressed upon by dinner, a simple offer that wouldn’t put Illya himself out for much other than a few hours a week, and had implanted a line of thought that was so taboo that Illya felt his cheeks colour at the thought of it.

 

Homosexuality was as illegal in the United States, as it was in Russia, but why then did Napoleon’s whispered words mean so much, while saying so little?

 

\--------------------

 

Exchange students routinely received a dorm room by themselves, for sake of privacy. It wasn’t as if students particularly needed their privacy, but most--if not all--foreign students came with their own belief systems and behaviours, some which American students may find too strange or offensive to tolerate as roommates. 

 

Illya was grateful for the privacy, and so was surprised when he received a knock on the door toward the end of the night, the evening before Christmas. Most students had gone home for the holiday break and Illya had been offered a change of scenery by being told that he could fly home for the break, but it fell on deaf ears that  _ Russian  _ Christmas wasn’t celebrated in December.

 

He hadn’t seen much of Napoleon since the week had started, either, so he was a little taken back by seeing him standing at his door, the culprit of the nighttime interruption.

 

“Thought you might like some company, Peril,” Napoleon joked, as he pushed his way inside, ignorant of Illya’s state of dress--or undress--or even the fact that the Russian may have already  _ had _ company present. “Seeing how all of Columbia is celebrating Christmas at home, and you’re stuck here.”

 

“Am not stuck,” Illya protested, sitting back down on his bed, a textbook open beside him and a half-finished cup of tea cooling on his nightstand. It was a big room for a single student but due to Illya’s size, the room seemed smaller somehow. “Am studying. Exams are in New Year.”

 

“Be as that may, the fact still remains that you’re alone during American Christmas, and that won’t do. Lucky for you, I’m also alone this year.”

 

“But you have family, Cowboy. You mentioned mother, and you have apartment so there is space for friends..”

 

“My mother’s in a mental hospital and I’m living off of the financial gains she and my father garnered over the years, due to their involvement with gambling houses in New York and Boston. I may have money and be devastatingly handsome, but my home life is a shambles and incidentally, I have no real friends to speak of. So, care for a drink?”

 

Napoleon settled himself down on the bed beside Illya after shoving the textbook out of the way, and lifted the bag he’d been carrying into his lap, the clink of glass easily heard from inside. He produced two bottles of scotch and two very heavy tumbler glasses, plus a small bag of small, half-moon shaped iced cookies, which Illya immediately eyed with interest, even over the booze.

 

“Is  _ pryanik _ ?” he asked, holding his hand out for the bag.

 

Napoleon handed it to him and started pouring them both a few fingers of scotch, setting the bottles down on the floor beside him and holding both glasses until Illya had fully inspected the treats. They were a type of spiced, honeyed cookie traditionally served during Orthodox Christian Christmas celebrations.

 

“They are. You’d be surprised what you can make with a proper recipe and some elbow grease.”

 

“You are far too nice to stranger, Cowboy,” Illya warned, though he was just as friendly with the other student, despite only knowing him for approximately a month. 

 

It didn’t stop Illya from opening the small bag and fetching a pair of pryaniki from inside, handing one to Napoleon, which was taken with a nod and an exchange for one of the tumblers. “I ate a few to make sure they weren’t poison, after I made them,” Napoleon joked. “And they’re actually pretty delicious.”

 

Illya nodded, one bitten in half and his chewing sounding more like a filthy movie was playing. He groaned around the taste of sweet honey and ginger, the small cookies dark brown inside but covered with a white frosting. He popped the other half into his mouth and dug into the bag for another, looking almost guilty as he looked back at Napoleon.

 

“They are for me? I can have another?”

 

Napoleon laughed, gesturing to the bag. “All for you, Peril. I saved a couple for myself back home, but they were intended for you, yes.”

 

Illya washed the second half down with a gulp of the expensive scotch, his surprise aimed at the glass as he half expected to choke or cough afterward. Napoleon’s choice of alcohol was likewise good.

 

“Is January, when we celebrate Christmas,” Illya indicated, again munching on a  _ pryanik _ . “But is also time for exams, so I would not be allowed to go back for holiday.”

 

Napoleon turned on the bed to sit cross-legged, his clothing oddly formal for a social visit, and a little more formal than his standard school clothing. “Then we’ll have some kind of party at my place. Maybe whip up a few more dishes you like from back in Russia, and we’ll celebrate together.”

 

Illya was still a little curious as to why Napoleon was so interested in making him feel at home in a foreign country, but he smiled and nodded to the suggestion nonetheless. 

 

“I would like that.”

 

“Good, then it’s settled. I only ask for a single thing in return, Peril, and feel free to say no, or to become insanely violent with refusal, your choice.”

 

_ There’s the catch,  _ Illya thought.  _ No American was ever freely polite without wanting something in return. Counsellor Oleg was right. _

 

“And what is that?”

 

“A kiss.”

 

Illya coughed as he nearly choked on another  _ pryanik.  _ “But is not-”

 

“No, it isn’t allowed, but it’s what I want. So either kiss me or hit me, but don’t leave me hanging on Christmas Eve.”

 

Illya set his tumbler down on the night stand and kept the treats in his lap, but leaned forward with intent, grabbing Napoleon by the shirt front and hauling him in for a brief but strong peck on the lips.

 

Napoleon sat back once it was over and Illya’s hand had fallen from his shirt, a smile creeping its way across his handsome features. “You taste like spiced rum.”

 

“Is scotch, Cowboy.”

 

“It’s a nice combination, whatever you’d like to call it.”

 

“Spiced scotch, which..is not a thing, is it?”

 

“It is now.”

 

“Maybe I do come for Christmas party in January,” Illya suggested, sitting back fully and going for more of the delicious scotch. “But is on my terms, then. I am bringing gifts and we will discuss further this..kiss between us.”

 

Napoleon chuckled out loud, clapping himself on the thigh from the hilarity of Illya’s statement. “You think I’m going to wait over two weeks to kiss you again? This isn’t a  _ game _ , Peril. You’re mine now.”

 

Illya leaned forward and grabbed Napoleon’s shirt again, hauling them close enough that their noses touched. 

 

“ _ Nyet _ . You are  _ mine  _ now. Is not  _ game  _ with me, especially since is  _ illegal  _ game.”

 

“It’s more fun that way.”

 

“We will see.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Peril.”

 

“Happy American December holiday, Cowboy.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely hope this fic is all right for the request given. I ran into some dead ends on which of the requests I felt good enough to respond to, and this one was the kicker. I'm shite with A/B/O stuff, so this one was the request that didn't NEED it. I may continue with another chapter in the coming weeks if time allows, but it IS our holidays (I'm in Canada) and I've been baking like a lunatic to catch up with Christmas cookies before the work parties and family gatherings start. Cheers!


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